Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 46

Labels, judgments, and ASSumptions

In college, these were my conceived definitions of “liberal” and “conservative”:

Liberal

Typically non-religious, Democrat, pro-choice, pro gay marriage, sexually active, lives by the motto “Everything is permissible if it feels good.”

Conservative

Very religious, Republican, pro-life, anti gay marriage, affirms sex in straight marriages only, advocates faith over science.

Both boxes are starting to get claustrophobic. Both boxes have perceived ideas of what everyone should believe and what lifestyle choices everyone should make, completely trivializing the complicated journeys that take place before deciding what’s important; what’s worth fighting for.

Sure seems that if you say the wrong thing, ask the wrong question, propose the wrong theory, the lids on the boxes go flying and everyone starts losing their minds.

This is something that most people won’t notice or care about, but it helped clear my mind a bit to remove my religious and political beliefs from Facebook – not because I’m ashamed (though I’ll admit to being slightly confused), but because I’m sick of the assumed judgments about my character and my values that come with identifiers like “Christian” or that of any political party. I’ve been asked whether I’m trading “biblical Christianity” for “progressive Christianity,” and I don’t know how to begin to answer such a question; even “progressive” Christians believe their interpretations are biblical. Implied in that question is the idea that questioning doctrines I don’t understand and listening to the struggles of people who believe differently is somehow not allowed.

Seriously, I say something about how it’s possible to have a religious conviction against gay marriage but affirm it legally in a country that practices separation of church and state, and suddenly I’m put in the liberal box? Really?

I used to think it was silly when some of my Christian friends decided to forgo the Christian title and instead call themselves “Followers of Jesus,” but I sort of get it now. Rather than come up with a new clever title (which is only bound to get tarnished again anyhow), I decided it’s pointless to quantify everything I am that will allow me to check off a box on a Pew Forum poll or something. I am a person with a unique journey. Ask me about that instead.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Facebook, gay marriage, marriage

What I’ll tell my kids about the day that gay marriage was nationally recognized

If I ever have children someday, there’s a chance they might ask me if I remember what I was doing on the day that gay marriage became legal everywhere in the United States.

I can tell them that I was in the middle of my usual morning routine, drinking coffee while reading a book to wake up. My phone buzzed with a text from my husband about remembering to drive him to Honda to pick up the car after having fog lights installed. And since I lack self-control, after answering that text, I meandered on to my Facebook app.

My newsfeed was an explosion of pictures: rainbow flags, couples crying, banners of joy…along with public lament for America once again testing God’s patience. The positive posts were more or less the same: “About time, America!” “Freedom for all!” “#LoveWins!” But among them were links to articles by popular (and in my opinion, misguided) conservative bloggers who truly believe this is the beginning of the end of modern society; that the fires of persecution will heat back up again, just as they did in ancient Rome.

I will tell my children that I remember thinking, Excuse me? Ancient Rome?!

Most poignantly, I will tell my hypothetical children how, in that moment, the only fire I felt was something like Jewish vindication. Holocaust education is now an essential aspect of Jewish learning. The point is to never forget, and frankly, some US citizens could use a reminder. Any rational person should agree that systematic murder and ethnic cleansing is the prime definition of real persecution. The American Supreme Court is no Nazi regime. The Constitution was written to prevent the people being ruled under an iron thumb.

I will tell my children that I feared what my attitude about this ruling would be if I were raised evangelical instead. It was Judaism that saved me – saved me from buying into the harmful persecution myth that is so prevalent among the privileged, for reasons I will never understand.

I will tell my kids that a legacy of discrimination, expulsion, and attempts at extinction are not to be envied, mocked, or discussed lightly. When it is your God’s name printed on currency, your holy book’s verses posted outside of courthouses, and your holidays assumed to be practiced by the majority of your country, you are not at risk of persecution – not now, anyway. And God forbid there is ever a holocaust to wipe out Christians in the United States, many will regret ever discussing it using extreme hyperbole. Many will regret ever using that threat as a means to advance their political agendas.

I will tell my children that I was once again grateful for my upbringing, and my ancestors who passed Judaism along to me, on the day that gay marriage was nationally legalized.

It was Judaism that kept my head on straight and forbid me to look for conspiracies that are as real as the boogeyman under a child’s bed.

Filed under: Other stuff, Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Facebook, gay marriage, Homosexuality, Judaism, marriage, social justice

No act of love is meaningless

“I want everything I do to be for the glory of God.”

Have you ever heard someone say this before? Have you ever echoed an “Amen!” to this statement in small group, but had no idea what it actually meant on a day-to-day basis?

I have.

Have you ever heard someone say this is the ultimate goal of the Christian life, and everything not done for this purpose is a waste of time?

But what about…going to the bathroom?

Taking a shower?

Emptying the dishwasher?

Scooping the litter box?

I definitely have.

Taken literally, this concept is not as clear-cut as it sounds. For years I’ve nodded my head every time I heard this, assuming I was supposed to already know this – if the answer wasn’t obvious, I must be doing something wrong.

It wasn’t until last night’s small group that I heard an answer that finally made a bit of sense. Maybe it’s not what you do, per se, but the attitude you have while doing it. In Judaism, there is a prayer specifically for bowel movements – thanking God that those orifices are functioning like they’re supposed to. I used to have a laminated card with prayers in Hebrew and in English for washing hands, waking up, and the ability to breathe.

I thank God for the ability to construct words into sentences and stories that move people. It’s the only skill I have that has been consistent throughout my life since figure skating got too expensive, I moved away from my voice coach, and lost interest in the violin. I thank God for living in an era where publishing is easier than ever (which isn’t always a good thing, but that’s another post).

I certainly feel that some activities are always meaningful: spending time with family, preparing a home-cooked meal for friends, reading a story to a child. I have my own opinions about activities that are not meaningful, and perhaps damaging and degrading. But I’m getting a little tired of hearing other people dictate what is or is not meaningful as if it’s a hard, obvious fact. I have a handful of people in my life who don’t subscribe to any religion, but have cooked for me, opened their homes to me, lent me good books. Some people would say those gestures were meaningless for being done outside the glory of God.

I must digress: I think all good things come from God. It’s not for me to say that a stranger’s life is devoid of meaning because their religious views and life choices differ from mine. I think God is glorified any time we experience pleasure from good things. Glory in bite-sized pieces makes a lot more sense.

What else gives God glory? Watching two sleeping kittens. Now that‘s a fact.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: cats, Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, Judaism

Yes, I stopped looking and found him, but…

Every now and then I reread old journals, because the so-called life ruining moments then are things I laugh about now…sometimes. Then there are passages that make me laugh and cry:

I think we can all agree that there is a valuable lesson to be learned from this excerpt: never say never. Because four months after that entry was written, I ran into an old friend who bought me my first Christmas ornament: a little ceramic black squirrel (if you went to Kent State, you’ll understand). I paid him back with coffee. He paid me back with dinner. Eventually he gave me the ultimate trump card: a ring. So I paid him back one more by saying “Heck yeah!!!”

But if you had an ability to predict the future and tried to convince the me of Summer 2011 how wrong I was, I wouldn’t have believed a word of it. At the same time, I was obsessed with this song from Death Cab for Cutie: You may feel alone when you’re falling asleep/And every time tears roll down your cheek/I know your heart belongs to someone you’ve yet to meet/Someday you will be loved.

Prophetic, huh?

I’m not about to repeat the cliché that every person who is still single over the age of twenty-five has heard ad nauseum: If you just stop looking, that’s when you’ll find the one! I don’t think there’s any cosmic reverse psychology: curse the thing you want so the universe makes sure you get it (At least I hope there’s not, because I’ve been telling people I don’t even want to think about kids for at least another five years, so I hope I’m not getting myself in trouble…).

What I really think made all the difference was my willingness to not to let depression keep me in a sinkhole. I went back to counseling after a five-year hiatus, got back on anti-depressants, and dragged my sad butt out of bed every morning…sometimes that was the most productive thing I did all day. I made it a goal to accomplish one act of self-care per day if I could. Sometimes it was managing to take a shower or eat something healthier than a Chik-Fil-A sandwich. Sometimes it was wearing a nice outfit even if I had nowhere to go because it made me feel good. I worked up from small outings outside my house for grocery shopping to meeting a friend for coffee. I learned how to function again, one step at a time.

That might sound ridiculous and extreme to some, but if you’ve ever had severe depression, you understand that sometimes it physically hurts. It clings to you like baggy clothes and draws away your energy like white cat fur to a black shirt. You live in it, you don’t just feel it. You see the world through it. It’s like fog, really.

I owe my first seven months of marriage to that decision to take better care of myself and quit being a hermit. Not because I had anyone to impress, but because it’s what healthy humans do. Because I decided to give the world a chance rather than wait until I felt like it…and I met someone in the process. But I could have met anyone – a new friend, a lady who noticed my “Be careful or I’ll put you in my novel” t-shirt and asked if I was published, and then for a business card…

I owe it all to accepting the risk of possibility. Because “Stop looking and you’ll find him!” is empty, if not stupid, advice.

Filed under: Other stuff Tagged: depression, grief, marriage, self-care, singlehood, Writing

Can Judaism or Christianity explain away God’s violence?

When I think of the “Jewish Bible” (or “Tanakh,” to be more accurate), I think of the classic Sunday school tales that Jewish and Christian children alike are taught: Adam and Eve and the Forbidden Tree, Noah’s Ark, Jonah and the whale. It wasn’t until after becoming a Christian that I got around to the less popular, more disturbing passages of the Old Testament: the offering of Lot’s daughters to be raped by a mob, the massacre at Canaan, descriptions of dashing enemy infants’ heads on rocks. Christians, at least, have the New Testament to (not always satisfactorily) explain away the sickening bloodshed God himself authorized.

Apparently, in the centuries between the canons, God underwent a personality transplant before introducing Jesus, who offered a more inclusive, less violent covenant (until the crucifixion, anyway). Christians explain that the new covenant fulfills the old; the purpose of the Old Law, and by extension the flawed examples of those who followed it, was to highlight our sinful nature. I’d say the Old Testament definitely gets that message across. What troubles me is how Judaism might explain away or justify this divinely decreed violence. We have no “new covenant” to fulfill or otherwise eradicate or excuse it.

What does this say about our morality compared to our Creator’s? Most human beings find genocide abhorrent, and won’t be inclined to study the “context” of these verses that seem like a portrayal of a very angry, tyrannical god. Once again, Jewish culture is not just my only option for claiming Judaism, but maybe even the preferred option. Of course Jesus seems nicer by comparison.

But even Jesus has undergone cultural makeovers through the ages, and has radically different personalities depending on who you talk to. I have friends who were raised with the radically exclusive (“No one comes to the Father except through me”), table-flipping, family-values-stomping Jesus (“If one loves his father or mother more than me, he is not worthy of being my disciple”). Conversely, some of my college friends embraced the long-haired, non-judgmental (“Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone”), “All you need is love” hippie Jesus. Can they both be the same person, or is one camp of belief more wrong than the other? What if they’re both wrong?

I wonder if some groups identify with the side of God they need the most. People who grew up with fire-and-brimstone sermons only are missing the side of God’s love. People who learned only about love and grace are missing the judgment and justice side of the coin. People need a God of anger and love just like children need loving parents who aren’t afraid to discipline when needed. But these two sides of God remind me of those sinks with two faucets: you can have scalding hot water or freezing cold, but you can’t adjust both temperatures so they come out of one spout, creating the ideal temperature. Yet, both faucets are part of the same sink. And God’s relentless compassion and relentless anger are both part of the same book.

I’ve made people in bible studies and small groups very uncomfortable with these questions, and I certainly don’t ask them to cause a stir for the fun of it. I hate being “that person” to challenge a faith that brings comfort and purpose to so many, but I do for two reasons: 1) These are the passages that are often the beginning of a journey out of faith to atheism, and 2) Because other people might have the same questions, but are too afraid to ask. I am determined to understand this thing that is literally under my skin – I have religion etched into my DNA, which, for me, is enough of a reason to keep wrestling for a lifetime.

If you liked this post, you might be interested in checking out Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Judaism, social justice

The truth is complicated – “A Stunning Accusation” COVER REVEAL & excerpt

It’s the day I’ve been waiting for on pins and needles for weeks – cover reveal day! Looks pretty foreboding, doesn’t it? My cover artist, Jennifer Howell, did a phenomenal job capturing the tension and suspense I was hoping for. A STUNNING ACCUSATION releases on July 6th. If you are interested in an advanced copy for review, please fill out this Google doc and email it to Melissa.Flickinger@Booktrope.com.

Don’t forget to add to your Goodreads list!

Adelaide Scott is a 25-year-old relationship advice columnist for Stunning! Magazine. Her new boyfriend, Jordan Johnson, is a renowned photographer for Sports Unlimited. Their relationship seems perfect, until his ex-girlfriend confronts them at a bar – and accuses Jordan of raping her, turning their world upside down.

It doesn’t help that her best friend and editor, Kiersten Sharp, sees rape as a black-and-white issue, with no shades of doubt. Addie is about to discover that the truth – in all its forms – is complicated, and not at all what she expects.

***

     I was no closer to a new column idea by the end of the workday than I was that morning. Well, to clarify, there were always ideas; just nothing worth printing that would garner the same kind of attention as the one my readers loved most. If I were truly desperate, I could always piggyback off that column and write a series of other attention-getting accessories to attract men.

It was as if I turned Tracy Cavanaugh into a pin-up doll, where I borrowed her shoes, her hair, her clothes…her things. But what would happen once I peeled that all away? Then there would be just the woman, herself, to dissect. All the inside stuff that made up who she was.

Would anyone want to read about that?

Without much difficulty, I shoved the thought away, because it was Jordan Time. He suggested Mochahitos, a place known for serving alcohol and coffee, my two favorite things (though to my knowledge, they had yet to make a drink that was both a mocha and a mojito).

“Make good choices,” teased Kiersten as I slung my bag over my shoulder. Like I needed any reminders.

Jordan was already waiting at the bar when I got there. I hope I didn’t look too eager as I set my bag on the counter and took the chair next to him. Be cool. Be Stunning. “What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Coffee-flavored stout,” he answered. “Wanna try?”

He pushed the bottle toward me. I exhaled before trying a sip because it was a stout, a drink I knew I’d hate. I don’t like beers that are thick enough to be a meal.

“It’s good,” I told him, and then signaled the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having, please.”

“So,” Jordan said. He turned to face me. “There’s someone I want you to meet. She’ll be here shortly.”

My stomach clenched at the word she. His next hookup partner? A secret girlfriend? I supposed either possibility was inevitable, since it’s not like he ever promised me anything serious. I realized I was acting a bit paranoid. Still, it would have been nice to get a heads up before springing this new woman on me out of the blue in a casual moment.

In fact, I grew annoyed, and opened my mouth to rip him a new one, but I was interrupted.

“Hi,” chirped a child’s voice. We both looked down, and I wanted to kick myself for being so paranoid. The greeting came from to the toddler from the photo in his wallet.

“Zoe!” Jordan scooped her up, which she loved, judging by her breakout smile. “Where’s your mom? You’re too little to be in here by yourself.”

“Potty,” Zoe answered.

“Ahh. Okay. Well I guess you can chill with us while we wait for her to come back. Addie,” Jordan said. He settled Zoe in his lap and rested his chin on the girl’s head. “Meet my niece, Zoe. My favorite person in the whole world.”

“Hey there,” I said. I had to stop myself from extending my hand, as if toddlers knew how to handshake.

I’m not the best with kids, but Jordan clearly adored her. My uterus almost skipped a beat.

Not before too long, Jordan’s sister showed up. “Do you mind watching her for a few minutes, Jordy? I’m so behind on this research paper, I only need maybe twenty minutes to look some things over. Your next drink will be on me, I promise.”

“You know you don’t need to bribe me to hang out with this girl,” Jordan responded, bouncing Zoe on his lap, which made her laugh and laugh. I almost couldn’t handle this cuteness. “Hey, this is my girlfriend Addie, by the way.”

Girlfriend! Addie? Seriously? I felt as shocked as I was honored.

“Oh, wow, hey. Sorry, I’m so rude. Nice to meet you Addie, I’m Elise. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have so much homework. We’ll talk later?” She disappeared to a table across the bar before I could respond.

What just happened here?

While Jordan ordered a scone for Zoe, I nursed my drink and tried to think of what to say. “So…girlfriend, huh?” Not too eager, not too emotional. I hoped.

“Well, yeah,” He broke the scone into smaller bites for his niece. “What did you think?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “You just made it seem like we were…”

“Well maybe that’s how it started.” He reached for my hand with his free one, as the other gently cradled his niece. “But I like you. I assumed you felt the same.”

     Keep calm, Adelaide. I forced myself to take another swig of beer. “Of course.” As much as I’d have loved to know when he realized I was a keeper and not just a fling, I switched to another topic instead. “So Elise seems nice.”

“Yeah, she is. Just constantly tired and overworked. She finally decided to go back to school after she had Zoe, and she’s determined to graduate within a year. Not bad for a single mom.”

My next question – assuming I could have found a tactful way to put it – was going to be about Zoe’s dad, since I noticed Elise didn’t have any rings on her left hand. “You must be very proud of her.”

“I am. I’m proud of both my sisters. Emma is a junior in high school and did better on the ACT than I did. And she kicks my ass in chess.”.Now mindful of the impressionable girl in his lap whose face was covered in scone crumbs, Jordan cooed, “I mean, butt. Don’t say ‘ass,’ Zo-Zo. Uncle Jordy has a potty mouth.”

“Potty mouf!” Zoe cried, releasing a spray of crumbs. Jordan shook his head. “What can I do? I’m her favorite babysitter, but also her worst influence.”

It was hard for me to reconcile these two sides of him: Jordan, the high-profile photographer with a girlfriend list as long as my arm, and goofy Uncle Jordy, fun-loving family man, charmer of adult women and two-year-olds. I was about to say, “I highly doubt that’s true,” but was interrupted by a frail, redheaded woman who just entered the bar. She stared directly at us. I only noticed her because of the fiery brightness of her hair – the merciless eyes that locked onto mine gave me an unexpected shock. I jerked my head back to Jordan. “How long can you go before teaching her your dirtiest jokes?” I asked.

“Hmm…” He continued to hold Zoe with one arm as he grabbed his beer and took a big gulp, pretending to ponder. “Those will have to wait until she’s much older. Like kindergarten.”

“Will Elise approve of that?”

“Elise will be grateful to have someone else to blame so people don’t think she’s the one who corrupted her.”

My laugh, though genuine, was louder than I’d anticipated, as the red-haired woman’s intense stare continued to freak me out. Her gaze locked on Jordan’s back, but Jordan didn’t face her, so he had no idea. “So, you come from a family of potty mouths, I take it?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly. My parents…well, let’s just say, we try to hide that side of ourselves when we’re around them.”

“I see…” I stopped speaking as the woman started walking toward us. Her eyes continued to bore holes in Jordan’s back, but she wobbled as she stepped closer. Was she drunk? No, more like…nervous.

“Hey.” Squeezing Jordan’s knee, I jerked my head in what’s-her-face’s direction. “You know that woman?”

By the time Jordan turned around, she stood in front of him, close enough to almost feel her visible anger. Her eyes widened and her face grew red like her hair.

“Jordan Johnson?” she said. “Is that you?”

Jordan’s forehead creased as he stared her down. Cautious. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, mixed with surprise, and, then, dread. He knew her. And however he knew her, it looked like he wished he didn’t. “Um, yeah. What are you doing here, Sam? I thought you moved out of the city?”

This Sam was so thin and short statured, with a baby-looking face to match, she could pass for a high school senior. Her eyes darted around like a spooked horse’s as she shook her head. “You,” she exclaimed, voice shaking while pointing a trembling finger. “You!”

“Look, Sam, I’d love to catch up sometime, but I’m kind of with my new girlfriend here.”

I relished this moment, the second time in the same hour I’d been referred to as Jordan’s girlfriend. But the euphoria didn’t last long, because the next words out of Sam’s mouth were piercing and unforgettable:

“You raped me.”

Filed under: Rape Culture, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, cover reveal, rape culture, Writing

Grieving a national tragedy when you’re already grieving

It’s a double-whammy of difficult days for me this week: my first father’s day without my dad, and what should have been my parents’ 35th anniversary the day after that. Here I’ve been, sitting in my little library, journaling and drinking tea and wondering if it will be good for me to attend church this Sunday. I’ve been considering skipping it altogether and instead following the advice of a friend of mine: do something Dad and I liked to do together. So maybe I’ll take my husband out for breakfast (he is, after all, a doting father to our kittens).

But then the shootings in Charleston happened, ripping me out of my grieving hole and keeping me glued to images of devastated families, biographies of the victims, and alarming information about how it’s apparently illegal to take down the Confederate flag.

As a human being, of course I’m outraged, but I don’t feel it as strongly as my father’s absence. The truth is, my own grief has worn me out. There is so much to be angry about in this world, and now I’m approaching burnout. On some level, this makes me feel selfish. Innocent people lost their lives in a senseless act of hate – but I’m worried about being emotionally triggered in church this Sunday.

I find myself wondering if it might be an act of self-care to turn off the news for a bit. This doesn’t mean I stop caring – but if I don’t care for myself, I’ll have no energy left to care about anything beyond myself, and that too would be a tragedy. For me, it’s the same logic of flight attendants instructing airplane passengers to put their own oxygen masks on first before assisting other people.

And then there’s the realization that I can only do so much – but I am capable of doing a lot. I struggle with learning to pick my battles, because they are all equally important. The last thing I’d want to do is send a message that by choosing one issue over another, I am saying one matters more than the other.

There will be much grieving this weekend. I hope it’s a small comfort to the victims’ families in Charleston that their names have been added to my list. Even if grieving is all I can do, acknowledging the value of lost life is never nothing.

Filed under: Other stuff Tagged: Charleston Shooting, depression, Father's Day, grief, self-care

Let’s stop apologizing for others’ bad behavior

One of the books that most influenced my life is The Sunflower by Simon Wiesenthal. It’s the true story of Wiesenthal’s experience in a concentration camp, from which he was pulled aside one day and lead to the hospital room of a dying SS officer. From his deathbed, the officer detailed his horrific crimes against humanity, and reasoned that the only way he could die with a clear conscience was to ask forgiveness from a Jew. Except the Jews he should have asked forgiveness from were murdered. He figured he could fulfill this request by talking to any Jew. Wiesenthal was selected at random.

Floored – because all Jews were the same, in that officer’s mind – Wiesenthal said nothing. The rest of the book is a collection of essays from religious leaders of all stripes about what they would have done in his place.

That book taught me most of what I know about forgiveness. Mainly, that the only person who can rightfully give it is the person who was hurt or offended somehow. But if the victim refuses, the offense remains an open wound, and the only other way for the offender to have resolution is to appeal to his God, who reflects himself in all humans.

What the SS officer was asking makes as much sense as requiring all 21st-century white Americans to apologize for slavery in 19th-century America. It’s an empty apology, because it is not within their right to give it. Recently, I’ve seen countless apologies in the blogosphere from pastors and Christians on behalf of all corrupt pastors and Christians. While the sentiment behind this gesture is well intentioned, it absolves the real offenders of personal responsibility. It doesn’t do much to comfort me, personally, when the offending person is still out there, offending without remorse. It doesn’t comfort me to read #NotAllMen tweets because I know “not all men” are assholes; I married one, after all. Rational people ought to be aware of that. I’m only interested in an apology from one specific man, but I know I’ll never get it. It’s rare for certain kinds of offenders to ever show a hint of remorse. Luckily, I’m not putting my life on hold for that. Real forgiveness is refusing to let the offense(s) poison your life.

In light of recent events, I’d rather see Christians prove with their lives that they are “not all like that.” Let’s not trivialize the suffering of people who are hurt and burned out by acting as if what happened to them is a rare occurrence. Let’s not be arrogant enough to assume responsibility for people whose actions we cannot control. The only time this is acceptable is when a mother apologized to me recently after her young son stepped on my foot. He couldn’t have been older than three or four, and when she said to him, “Apologize to her!” he blew spit bubbles instead. It was more than enough for me to see proof that that mother was doing her best to raise a well-rounded, socially considerate person. But at some point, we leave the shelter of someone else’s responsibility and must be held accountable for our own individual choices.

Filed under: Other stuff, Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Judaism

A confessional on pride

My “I can’t believe this, I’m so above this” face

When I was six years old, I temporarily quit ballet and took up figure skating for the sole purpose of having the stage (or in that case, rink) to myself. I hated blending in with a dozen other girls wearing matching costumes, doing the exact same moves. I wanted all eyes on me – only me.

From an early age, I knew I wanted to be famous. I participated in every talent show, auditioned for every play, entered every contest. I wanted to excel at everything, and hated when someone else received recognition for something I worked equally hard to accomplish. I even resented my parents for naming me Sarah Elizabeth, the “It” name of the eighties, and one I shared with dozens of other girls in my school. How could I possibly stand out if I had such a boring, common name? No one would remember it!

First-name recognition was the reason I started writing under the name Sarahbeth when I became a weekly columnist for my campus newspaper. “Are you Sarahbeth?” was my new favorite question: no last name required. Of course, living in Yankee territory, double-barreled first names do not easily roll off most people’s tongues, and the majority of people I encountered preferred to shorten it to Sarah in casual conversation. Plan failed.

It was Christianity that helped me reach that level of humility where I realized I am just a speck in the vast, unfathomable universe. After all, I worshiped a God who shed his divine privileges to live as a poor man in a society where he could have benefited greatly by using them for his own gain. Whatever gifts and talents I have to offer should be for the betterment of the world and of others, not my own self-seeking glory. Using my gifts should be a demonstration of thankfulness to the creator who gave them to me. Understanding this, I was able to accept living as Beth; a name I realized was a much better fit, despite being “common.” I came to a radical understanding that I could actually make this name my own – and it made going to Starbucks a hell of a lot easier.

I still want to be an influential writer, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. But my motives are different now. I credit Christianity for helping me rearrange my priorities, so I care more about my words touching and influencing people than being a household name, or seeing one of my stories turned into a movie (though I can’t lie, that would be incredibly awesome). Humility is simply more attractive than pride. Humility says to others, “Let me put your needs first and give you my full attention.” Pride, on the other hand – always seeking opportunities to put myself out there for the sake of putting myself out there – gets annoying. I don’t miss the competition I created in my head, seeing other people’s talents as a threat to my own. How sad that former way of life was – how exhausting.

I don’t mean to imply that Judaism couldn’t teach me healthy humility and help reorganize my priorities; it certainly could. I guess it helped to have a visual reminder, and that reminder was Jesus on a cross demonstrating the ultimate self-sacrificing, humiliating, and degrading act of love with absolutely no possibility of self-gain. I really needed to understand what that meant.

But now, returning to the Faith vs. Culture collision, I often see the exact opposite of humility: I hear about restaurants offering discounts to customers who are seen praying before a meal (does that mean they will hold off prayer, letting the food get cold, until a server comes around to take notice?). I’ve experienced judgment for not raising my hands high enough during worship, because my form of worship doesn’t involve those gestures, and I don’t feel I need them. That pride I worked so hard to overcome comes back with fiery fierceness in the form of “humble-bragging”: at least I’m not jumping around waving my arms like Susie over there. Who does she think she is, showing off like that? I’m the one doing it right, sitting here quietly without drawing attention to myself…

Most ironically, I pride myself on having such keen self-awareness of my flaws. But hey, I’m a work in progress. We all are.

Filed under: Religion, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, Judaism, Writing

Losing Jesus in the sea of cliches

For all my moaning and groaning about how I just don’t “get” evangelical culture, I seem to have lost sight of Jesus. It’s an easy thing to do, when many who represent him attribute quotes to him and his dad that neither of them actually said, and that gets rather frustrating.

“Everything happens for a reason” is found nowhere in the Bible, but for how many Christians say it, you’d assume it was the eleventh commandment to believe it. This is a hard one for me, because it’s comforted me many times during unexplainable hardships. It’s especially hard when I realize that if I hadn’t joined my college ministry, an organization that caused me more spiritual harm than good, I never would have met my husband. In fact, if I hadn’t joined a dance class in middle school, where I met my future maid of honor, who later recommended I get “plugged in” to a ministry to help me grow, I never would have met my husband. Was I meant to join a very specific dance class to be lead to Cru to find a husband? Who knows.

“Love the sinner, hate the sin.” The sentiment is a nice one: love people without always agreeing or supporting what they do. It sounds wonderful in theory but often fails in practice when hating the sin feels an awful lot like hating the sinner. Truthfully, I have no time or energy to hate other people’s sins. There’s no one’s sin that I despise more than my own.

“God protected my house from a tornado/Jesus healed my tumor.” Aside from being offensive to those whose homes weren’t protected during a storm, and to those whose loved ones did die of tumors, statements like these are particularly senseless coming from the mouths of people who follow a religion in which God allowed his own son to die a horrible, agonizing death. Think about it for a moment: if God allowed Jesus to suffer, why should any of us be exempt?

That’s not to say God can’t or won’t protect a house in a storm or zap an illness away, but I find it’s easier to believe those things when it happens to you personally. Those of us who spent significant amounts of time in the chemo ward without success are more inclined to accept that the doctors did the best they could (really, thank God for doctors!), but sometimes, shit happens anyway. It’s a cold comfort – not really a comfort at all – to accept that sometimes tragedy has no apparent reason; you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, you inherited crappy genes, you ignored the phone ringing that would have made you five minutes late, preventing you from ending up in that fourteen-car pile-up on 1-25.

I believe Jesus when he says that there is meaning and redemption that can come out of suffering. That, to me, is his biggest selling point: shit happens, but it can be used for great fertilizer if harvested the right way. I find comfort in being part of a faith that emphasizes meaning and closeness to God in suffering rather than seeking to excuse or avoid it. In such a fallen world as this, avoiding suffering is impossible. The promise of Jesus to redeem it is a far more comforting and realistic hope to rest on.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Campus Crusade for Christ, cancer, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, First World Problems, grief